This Country

 

This Country

I learned that obsidian is five hundred times sharper than steel,
      but it's fragile—meant for ceremonies rather than to cut through bone.

Forgive that I am a poet, and I always find it a poignant metaphor: our times
      are deadly and finite, ominous but moving from daylight to dark like dusk.

This may be the time for evening prayers, kneeling to wish a country well
      when so many are afraid, counting their breaths, fearing how reassurances

are translucent—words seem clear, but promises so blurry—and the future
      is as uncertain as bread being left to fend for itself, in an unattended oven.

Do you think a rich man would be worried about the poor?
      Would you wear sandals in winter?